Woven Threads
by ethelbertina
Summary: As Ianto struggles to accept Lisa's death, he needs something that only Jack can provide.


Ianto watched the days tick away on his calendar and rued the passing of time. Life at Torchwood provided brutal daily reminders that time marches on, however, so he gathered the slender threads of his strength together and tried to find a way to mark this dreaded day.

He stepped back and looked at the new black suit and crisp blue shirt laid out on his bed. He added the perfect blue and black striped silk tie that he had found hanging in the back of his wardrobe and surveyed the combination. He had splurged on the new suit, but felt the day required nothing less from him. He picked up the shirt, and moved across the room to the ironing board that was more or less permanently set up there. The iron was tested and several small wrinkles the drycleaner had left in the shirt were carefully obliterated. His shirt was slipped on, still warm from the iron and buttoned from the bottom up, a quirk he'd picked up from his father. He slid the pants off their wooden hanger, ran the iron over them quickly to reinforce the crease, and stepped into them. The belt was threaded through the loops, shirttails were tucked in, and the silver buckle fastened. The waistcoat came next. Then he stepped to his bureau to slip a worn silver watch into his vest pocket, secured the chain and dropped fob in the opposite pocket. There were several pairs of cufflinks in a glass tray in front of him, and he stopped for a minute to ponder which set he wanted to wear. As he stared down at his choices he found himself idly toying with the watch chain, a recent unexpected gift. He opted for a set of mother of pearl cufflinks bought on impulse one rainy day in an antique store in Brittany. He sat down on the bed and picked up his freshly polished and buffed shoes and slipped them on, deftly fastening the laces. He wandered over to the full-length mirror on the back of his bathroom door, worked the tie under his collar, and born of much practice, swiftly secured the knot. Surveying his reflection, he adjusted his collar, picked off a few pieces of lint, settled the cuff links, and pulled on his suit jacket.

It was just before dawn when he stepped out of his apartment. It was a short walk to the Plass, even with a short detour to his favorite bakery. He slipped quietly into the Tourist Office entrance and set the coffee and pastries on the counter. His overcoat went on the hook behind the beaded curtain, and he powered up his computer to check and see if anyone else was in the Hub. Clicking through the various CCTV cameras told him that he was the first to arrive. Grateful for this stroke of luck, he disabled the alarms, grabbed a small plaid blanket he kept behind the counter and picked up the bakery treats. Once through the secret doorway, he made sure the door was secured behind him, and then turned and opted to take the back stairs, which led down into the archives. He often slipped down this way as it was quieter and less obtrusive then coming in through the cog door and straight into the main workspace.

The deeper tunnels were nearly always cool and dark, but Ianto knew his way around. Outside the wooden doors which led into the archives, he turned left and headed down the adjoining hallway finally arriving at his destination. He paused a minute before pushing the door in front of him open with his shoulder and stood finally inside the Morgue, Level 2. He leaned back for a moment, sighing and resting his head on the door behind him. He knew this wasn't going to be easy, but he also knew what needed to be done. Walking across the metal gangplank he listened to his footsteps echo inside the cold rock and plaster walls.

The number of the drawer he was drawn towards had been burned into his brain for weeks. He snorted softly when remembering that he had been the one to complete the paperwork. He had felt responsible, and so he had painstakingly filled out the requisite forms. Bakery bags went on the floor, and the blanket was spread out in front of drawer 2017. There had been several empty drawers in this block of the morgue, but he had selected one on the bottom row. He knelt onto the blanket and hesitantly reached out his hand to caress the wooden door in front of him.

"Happy Birthday, Sweetheart. I know how much you love breakfast in bed, I brought coffee and your favorite chocolate croissants."

He turned, and removed the lid from his coffee, and sat with his back pressed up against the wooden morgue door. He sat and sipped his coffee and tried to find his way through the complex emotions surrounding him. He wanted to spend time with the happy memories, but there were so many other memories getting in the way. He took several sips from his coffee, and found himself sitting there, cradling a half empty cup, tears streaming down his face. In the six weeks since Lisa's death, he hadn't really allowed himself to grieve. After his initial anguish, he had not allowed himself to feel anything. The only way to get through the day was with as little emotion as possible.

But sitting here in the quiet dimly lit morgue below the Torchwood Hub, he felt himself begin to let go. He had no idea how long he sat there, but when he felt a gentle presence remove the now cold coffee cup from his hands and set it to the side, he looked up through wet lashes to see Jack kneeling in front of him. Jack lay his arms on top of Iantos, which were wrapped around his knees, and gripped the younger man's shoulders.

"Everything OK, Ianto?," Jack asked softly?

"We used to bring each other breakfast in bed on our birthdays. It seemed right to keep up the tradition."

"Coffee and chocolate is a wonderful way to start the day," Jack said with a smile.

"She used to drive me crazy. She'd bring me instant coffee and then get crumbs all through the sheets. Oh sir, I miss her so much..."

Ianto found himself wracked with a fresh round of tears, but this time, Jack pulled him into his arms and held him, rocking him gently and whispering soft words of comfort. He found himself clutching Jack's shirt and sobbing into the older man's shoulder. When the tears slowed somewhat, he found Jack wiping them away with a soft white cotton handkerchief.

"Hell of a day to forget a handkerchief, isn't it sir," he asked softly looking into Jack's eyes.

"Well, hold on to this one then," Jack replied, tucking the hankie into Ianto's hand. "I don't need it. You keep it."

Ianto wiped his eyes, and then as the two men talked, he idly ran his fingers over the J embroidered in the corner of Jack's handkerchief. "J for Jack, J for Jones he thought briefly.

Three days later, when Jack slipped down into his bedroom to change his shirt after a particularly messy Weevil hunt, he found a small wrapped package sitting on his bed. Inside was a set of three crisp sparkling white cotton handkerchiefs embroidered in grey satin with the initial J.

The card on top read, "Jack, Thanks. Some things I will never forget."


End file.
